Thursday, September 22, 2011

When it rains, it pours


I love the monsoon's daily downpour.

Two droplets of water hit the ground in near slow motion as a warning to don the raincoat and run for shelter. Moments later, the blackened sky opens and torrential rains hail upon the unfortunate pedestrian. The wind howls through the office hallway, rattling the framed map of Cambodia. Moto drivers pull on bright yellow and pink and purple polka dotted ponchos without even slowing down, and tuk-tuk drivers unroll forest green waterproof flaps to protect their passengers. A schoolgirl tries to shelter her Barbie backpack. The parking attendant at a popular lunchtime cafe chases after a customer, fruitlessly trying to cover her with a broken black umbrella. An older gentleman sits on his doorstep under a small awning wearing nothing but plaid boxer shorts. He smokes a cigarette, closes his eyes, and inhales the scent of earth that is only present after the fumes from car exhaust have been washed away.

The roads turn to mud and recently repaid potholes disintegrate back into murky ponds. The water falls on the tin roof of our office gazebo with the steady rata-tat-tat of the snare drum in a military parade. Rain is rhythmic, peaceful, and (usually) predictable.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Disconnect

I just spent the entire evening speaking only in French with three girls from Japan, Romania, and Germany in an Indian restaurant in Cambodia.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The Cambodian Countryside

Scene from the drive between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh.

Integration?

I wonder a lot about the degree to which I'm immersing myself in Cambodia. I am living with expats, working with expats, and I find myself comparing my Cambodian experiences to theirs. Am I more authentic or less? Am I doing enough?

Is it wrong for me to choose a chicken and guacamole panini at the French-style cafe for lunch, when only yesterday I had fried noodles with seafood (in this case, "seafood" meant squid). Do I offset my cereal purchases from the expat supermarket with the dragon fruit I bought from a vendor on the side of the road? Have I learned enough Khmer to justify a three or four-month stay, or should I be more aggressive about language acquisition?

I ride in a tuk-tuk, but then I wonder if that is because I hail from the West. I don't trust the unhelmeted motorcycle drivers, but is this wrong? Do I cling to my American habits because I am afraid or because they are habits?

I wonder about things like "social responsibility" and "acceptable immersion", yet I don't think I can quantify my experience here. What is the real Cambodia anyway?

And yet, I AM an expat living here. I cannot escape the fact that I am American; I am a foreigner living here for just a semester's time. I can never integrate fully, especially not in such a short period of time. I can only do my part to experience and celebrate this country for what it is.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

The Market

Today, I went to the market. I’m not talking about Lucky Supermarket which caters to the expat community here. No, I was the only Western face wandering through the dank corridor of vegetable stands, passing giggling Khmer venders and shoppers. Less than two blocks from my apartment, this massive labyrinth of produce appears unexpectedly. From the street, I only notice one or two vendors selling apples imported from New Zealand, tangerines, dragon fruits, and litchis. I wonder how they came across the apples in the first place.

As I purchase a few fruits, I realize these vendors are merely the gateway to an extensive network of produce sellers and fishmongers and vendors of eighteen different kinds of cooking oils and single-use packets of shampoo. The deeper into the market I wander, the darker it becomes, sunlight blocked by the crowded stalls covered with low-hanging burlap tarps. I am overwhelmed by the smell of dried fish and roasting garlic. A vegetable vendor grins at me, thrusting forth knobby green bitter melons with her gnarled fingers and soliciting my business in Khmer. Peanuts and cashews in tiny plastic bags hang like Christmas tree ornaments, swaying as a motorcycle bumps into the stand in his irrational attempt to drive through the narrow space.

One stall over, an entire family lounges on a raised platform wearing pajama suits and playing cards.

I look to my right just as a woman dumps a bucket full of live fish, splashing relentlessly as they beg to be returned to the river. Her sister removes the scales from this morning’s catch.

A little further, the squawk of an angry chicken announces my entrance to the meat section of the market. Shoppers can choose between the plucked, naked chickens swaying like broken wind chimes and the stack of freshly killed birds that resemble a pile of feather dusters. Just beside their dead cousins, a crate is packed with a dozen clamoring chickens who seem aware of their fate. Across the narrow path, a series of pig organs hang from the stall. Pig feet are lined in a neat row along the table.

I reach the end of the market and turn around to head home. A Khmer woman turns to her friends and says something loudly. I pick out the word ‘foreigner’ and glance sharply to my right. She shrieks with laughter and directs her Khmer chatter at me. I pretend to understand and laugh, which is apparently the correct response.

I return home with my little bag of fruits and vegetables, and I feel strangely accomplished. I have succeeded! I have purchased three apples at the Khmer price! I bought an onion! I am amused at my own pride.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Phnom Penh

Every morning, my friend the tuk-tuk driver arrives at my doorstep at 7:45 am, eager and ready to take me to work. I sit on the plush beige seat of this Cambodian rickshaw while he adjusts his helmet and climbs onto the attached motorcycle. The rusted red rim separating us is adorned with faded photographs of Phnom Penh's most famous destinations - the Royal Palace, the Silver Pagoda, the rifle range.

The next thing I know, I'm bouncing over potholes as we fly down the street at nearly 20 miles per hour. In moments, we leave my residential enclave of housewives and gated homes and meet the hustle of city center. Hundreds of gallons of exhaust pumped into the city each day by unregulated vehicles have dulled the streets, giving it the illusion of a 1950s discolored photograph. Dozens of tuk-tuks and motorcycles and Lexus SUVs challenge each other for space on the aged road, making tight turns to any space that may open. There are no lanes; it is a dance of worker bees returning from an expedition to the fields. Droves of motorcycles lead the pack since they have the clear advantage. In addition to their space saving capacity and ability to squirm through the smallest of openings, the patrolling policeman turns a blind eye as they shift onto the wrong side of the street. (It's more efficient, after all.) The rare pedestrian must summon a blind faith in God to cross the street unharmed.

On either side of me, Phnom Penh awakes as children walk to school in their immaculate plaid uniforms an shop owners reset their window displays. Each store is specialized and random - wooden doors, hubcaps, and silverware. "Lucky" seems to be the most popular descriptor here. I pass Lucky Supermarket, Lucky Burger, and Lucky Dental Clinic, to name a few. I see a family selling clams by the bushel beside a fruit vendor marking the ripest of spiky jackfruits with a spray painted red X.

Beside me, a family of four atop a motorcycle pulls up and peers in. "Hello!" the young daughter shrieks, eager to practice the English she learns all day in school. Though she can't be older than seven, she sits in front with her hands calmly gripping the steering wheel. Her father sits behind her, his hands flanking hers as he controls the bike. He wears the sole helmet and a nonchalant expression. His son, a few years older than his sister, simply stares at me, gaping, as if he must absorb every intricate feature in the twelve seconds we are stopped by traffic. His back leans into his mother who wears a full set of brightly colored pajama pants that look like a Lucky Charms advertisement or the scrubs you would find in the waiting room of a vet clinic. Next they zoom off to gather with the other motorcycles ahead. I notice older man on a pink and silver scooter with a fifteen pound bag of rice between his knees. Beside him, three college age boys are so desperate to be cool in their Genuwyne Ralph Lauren polo shirts. Impatient, they drive onto the sidewalk approximation to circumvent the out-of-place Range Rover.

To reach the office, we must drive to the "suburbs" of Phnom Penh, where suddenly the air becomes clean and the streets become colorful. As we cross the abandoned railroad tracks, I notice a young mother washing her son in a bucket of water and soap while her laundry drips in the breeze. Another five minutes down the dusty dirt road, over the creek, and around the puddles from yesterday's rain, and we reach the office. May another day begin.